


Chosen

by kangeiko



Category: Alias, Carnivale
Genre: Community: fanfic100, Crossover, Gen, Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-22
Updated: 2008-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>For all his control and his obsessions, Arvin Sloane never wondered why the first piece of the Rambaldi puzzle came to him, instead of to Jack. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen

**Author's Note:**

> fanfic100 Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane #80 - Why? My table is [here](http://kangeiko.livejournal.com/113677.html).

For all his control and his obsessions, Arvin Sloane never wondered why the first piece of the Rambaldi puzzle came to him, instead of to Jack. They were both in the same place, after all - a forgotten piece of the CCCP, with red flags strung up prominently and winter blessings hung furtively but with some determination - and both frozen stiff. They'd staggered into a local tavern to get warmed up, and had sampled a bit of the local brew to get their muscles to unclench. It would be days yet before they'd be able to pick out the reason for their visit - a lone KGB officer and a courier bringing a slim envelope that necessitated two CIA agents with three layers of underwear beneath their clothes - and they had set about making themselves comfortable. Jack had gone to find the lady of the house and squirrel their meagre belongings away for the night, and Arvin was left guarding their drinks and their places by the open fire, pounding his hands together and hoping that circulation would eventually return. His frame had always been slighter than Jack's and, out here, it mattered a lot more than it might otherwise have done. He simply wasn't physically equipped to cope with the blizzard outside, and he hoped fervently that there would be places enough for them here.

Damn the KGB for their ridiculous meetings, anyway, he thought, and looked up into the face of an old man. He must have shuffled over from the corner of the tavern; Arvin had noticed him upon entry and had then promptly forgotten him. "Nice to meet a fellow countryman," the old man said quietly, in West Coast-accented English.

Arvin's mouth dried out in an instant. "Ya ne pominayu," he said brusquely, and turned away, heart racing. Where the hell was his gun and, more importantly, when would Jack be back so he could actually use it?

The old man chuckled. "No, of course you don't. How silly of me, brother." He settled into the chair opposite Sloane, conveniently blocking the view that Arvin had of the rest of the tavern. His voice dropped even lower. "But let's suppose, for the moment, that you _do_ understand me, hmm? My Russian isn't as proficient as I would like. I promise not to tell if you don't." When Arvin stared at him stonily, the old man sighed. "Arvin, I had honestly expected better from you. But, we make do with what we have when we do His work, and this is no different." He held his hand out. A single key glinted in his palm. "I'm going to leave this here for you. When you and your partner return to Moscow, before you fly out, go to the Central Bank, to deposit box number 5647. What's inside is for you alone." He got up, his joint cracking with the effort, and slowly moved away.

Arvin Sloane was left staring at the old wooden table, where two clear glasses of vodka sat untouched, and a silver key glittered in the firelight. I'll tell Jack about this, he thought. We're going to have to leave before gathering the Intel; he's going to need to know.

Three days later, two anonymous travellers departed from the tavern, their faces well wrapped up from the cold in coats and scarves.

One of them had a silver key on a chain around his neck.

*

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Selena, for the relationships meme.


End file.
